Afloat
by tersaseda
Summary: "She's going to actually have to do this, actually going to have to go swimming in the middle of the freaking ocean. With Hook. In his makeshift bathing suit off all things."


Tumblr prompt request from **jasminenightshade**: Hook takes Emma out on the Jolly Roger in summer because he wants to go swimming with her in the ocean because its such a huge part of who he is.

"Are you sure about this?"

She stares down into the deepest blue she's ever seen—deeper even than his eyes—and grips tighter onto the rope she's using to balance. Her stomach rolls with memory of the last time she did this amongst a mermaid-summoned storm and bickering and no one listening.

Today, however, there is not a cloud in the sky (she knows, she keeps checking every twenty seconds), and the only other person on the boat is smiling and definitely—embarrassingly—focused solely on her.

"You can't back out now, Swan," Hook teases, climbing up to stand on the rail next to her. "You lost the wager and now you forfeit the payment." With a wink and his trademark smirk, he lifts his arms above his head and jumps, arcing gracefully head-first into the ocean below. He barely makes a splash as he goes in, and she finds herself holding her breath until his dark head reappears above the waves.

"Damn it," she mutters. He's waving up at her now. She's going to actually have to do this, actually going to have to go swimming in the middle of the freaking ocean. With Hook. In his makeshift bathing suit off all things. (Thankfully he didn't protest her swimming attire because, even though she's only got this one outfit, the alternative was something terrifyingly sheer that Mary Margaret referred to as a shift.)

The Jolly Roger suddenly snaps its sails in the languid breeze.

"Geez, impatient, aren't you?" Emma snaps back, slightly accustomed to the sentient nature of Hook's vessel and the way she—yes, a _she_—seems eagerly in tune with her captain's thoughts and wishes. As if in petulant confirmation, the Roger heaves on the crest of the smallest wave Emma has ever seen. "Alright, alright. I'll jump! No need to throw me overboard." And taking a huge breath and cursing that lost knife throwing contest, she lets go of the rope and leaps.

It is not nearly as smooth a dive as Hook's, she can tell that by his laughter as she resurfaces. "I hate to say it, love, but your name is rather misleading."

Despite her chagrin, Emma can't help the smile that she feels spread across her face, too. "Hey—no jokes about my name." The glint in his eye is all the warning she needs. "And," she blurts out, "no jokes about my lack of form, either." She sends a splash his way for emphasis, but he dives before it reaches him, another laugh swallowed by the sea.

Treading water, Emma waits for him to come back up. She waits…and waits.

Her smile falls. "Hook?" She paddles in a circle. "_Hook?_"

An image of black, angry water flashes through her mind. Then the sharp blow to her head. Then the nothingness. No, no, no. It couldn't happen. Not here, not to—

Her next scream, like giants and boulders and shadows, comes piercing and frantic. "HOOK!"

A jet of water hits her in the back of the head and she spins. There he is, that damn cheeky grin and eyes sparkling like he's found a secret to the fountain of youth in these waters, like he's completely forgotten that they're just taking a break for the afternoon, like there's nothing in the world but him and her…

And she is so pissed!

"You jerk!" she screams, lunging forward and dunking him, his response a frothy gargle.

A hand reaches up for hers and tugs them away, followed shortly by his face coming up inches from hers. "What the bloody hell was that for?" he demands. It's irrational, she knows, but she is slightly mollified that he's gulping breaths and that he's finally serious and a bit pissed off, too.

"You can't do that, Hook!"

His look softens, and it both thrills her and frustrates her that he seems to have figured her out before she's done talking. So she plows on, never mind the distance he's closing between them. "You can't just do things like that—"

His hand on her hip, anchoring her, burning her.

"—and disappear and not answer and—"

He's pulling her towards him.

"…and…"

He is so close, so much closer than he's dared since the morning in New York when he kissed her at her front door.

"…and…" Her voice tapers off on a pathetic whisper as she comes flush against his bare chest and her hands fall onto his shoulders. Only because she's trying to float, too. (Her lie detector swiftly protests.)

Just before he kisses her, in between the breath of her name and her breath he steals, she sees twin sapphire oceans engulfing her in tenderness. She knows, she _knows_, that she can't fight the undertow of his lips, telling her of understanding and things he holds back for her sake. And she tells him of trust and that she's _trying_.

He pulls back a fraction, their kiss hanging in the salty air, and while her eyes flutter open, his stay shut for a few moments more. When he finally does look at her again, his expression is bright and carefree. It makes her feel good, too.

"I think," she quips, brushing back the hair on his forehead (she really did mean she was trying), "you can consider that payment in full."

He playfully kisses the tip of her nose. "Aye, it'll do." And backstroking smoothly away from her, he adds, "A vast improvement from your previous responses to my kiss."


End file.
